


Statement by a man that can't exist about fears that fear can have.

by depressed-sock (jinxedragon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Past Abuse, Stabbing, Temporary Character Death, stranger centric imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24790474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinxedragon/pseuds/depressed-sock
Summary: You don't know who I am. I'd applaud you but I have a feeling you'll be knowing soon enough. And once you know who I am… well, there wouldn't be a point to any kind of conversation between us.
Kudos: 2





	Statement by a man that can't exist about fears that fear can have.

**Statement by a man that can't exist about fears that fear can have.**

100% self indulgent writing lmao

Tw: death, stabbing, Stranger centric imagery (think episode 165 revolutions), graphic descriptions, anxiety, allusions to past abuse and queerphobia

Multiple times switching identification between I, we, and he.

**Statement Begins:**

You don't know who I am. I'd applaud you but I have a feeling you'll be knowing soon enough. And once you know who I am… well, there wouldn't be a point to any kind of conversation between us.

So that's why I'm here now. Before there's any chance of you knowing me.

I guess I should start at the beginning but to be honest there's too many beginnings that I'd have to tell. So I guess I'll start with our most recent death.

I can see you're already confused.

(The man gives a bark of laughter.)

You see, I cannot ever have a singular existence. Because for as long as the avatars of fear have existed we too have been there. A quiet presence that sits in the back of their minds. Some of them never truly realize it until it's too late.

What don't they realize, you ask? Well, that deep down behind their little power trips that they can still feel afraid. It's almost funny how many of them think themselves invincible. That there's nothing else out there that will feed off of them but their own gods.

(The man scoffs in response.) If you can truly call them that.

They just don't realize that there exists a fear just for them. A fear made to feed off of them just like how every fear is made to feed off of some poor human.

We are a... specially tailored revenge you could say. We are each and every one of their victims. We are the pain, the fear, the death that each of them have caused.

We are the victim's lost opportunities, the tears from those who mourned their deaths, but most of all _I_ am the victim's rage.

(The man pauses for a second. The sound of fingers tapping on the wooden table is the only thing audible for a few moments.)

Sorry... my head's not fully right anymore and it takes a second for me to get my bearings.

I am supposed to always be us, but… something changed with his death. Maybe it was how he died, maybe it was because for some reason someone did remember him. I'm not entirely sure to be honest.

I just know that _I_ died to multiple entities.

(A soft laugh and an almost inaudible mutter) Because when has my life ever been simple?

I…No. _He_ was a student. Here on a college exchange trip for the purpose of learning more about art history. Pretty boring all things considered with the exception that all he could feel was the anxiety waging a war beneath his skin.

There was no joy about new experiences, no excitement to see things he could only dream of before. Just the constant ache and twisting of his guts every time he so much as tried to think a thought.

It has always had a hold on his heart. And going alone on such a big trip by himself? Well, it was worse than he could have predicted. Eating away every bit of courage it had taken to come here.

Fear growing more and more out of his control. Fear of what people saw when they looked at him. Fear of letting his anger lash out at those who purposely hurt him. Fear of death, fear of living.

Worrying endlessly about telling truths vs telling lies. So much chaos inside one body. It really is not a surprise that it drew the attention of many of the fear's Avatars.

His existence was a flickering light in the dark that drew whatever simply looked his way. Such an easy target. Such a delicious meal.

The first to try their hand, surprisingly, was the slaughter. Cornered him in an alleyway way and ran him through with a rusty knife. It probably was hoping it's anger and lust for blood would amplify his own.

He did have so much anger. Just boiling deep down and out of sight. That need to hurt those that hurt him. The need to just hurt to try and feel anything but helpless.

It would have gotten such a good meal from him. Who knows how many he would lash out at, how many became another means to feed the Slaughter.

But it'd left him alone in that alley. Holding tight to that knife embedded in his stomach. It didn't know that another had been hunting him as well.

Easy prey made even easier for a minion of the Stranger.

(A chair creaks, his voice growing louder as if he's moved closer to the tape recorder)

Do you know what it's like to have your entire being, _your entire existence_ slowly torn into pieces?

No?

(A laugh) Of course, you don't.

Not even the Stranger knows what that feels like. Only _we_ can ever know that. I could try to explain it but to be honest it'd be a lot like trying to explain pain to a doctor who will never try to understand.

Oh, don't give me that look.

You can't believe me because you don't think we can exist anymore. And to be honest we don't blame you. You're right. We victim's of the stranger don't exist in a capacity that can be truly understood because it's been stolen from us.

He can though.

(Another creak of the chair and his voice grows quieter.)

Exist I mean.

At least exist enough that he could try and tell you that it feels like you're slowly being skinned alive. Chunks of your meat and bone are cut out into small squares and rearranged and put into something else… _someone_ else. Your skin slowly stitched on over it, and even though it's not your body anymore you're still able to feel each pierce of the needle. Each pull of the thread.

And all while it's happening, you know your body is still whole. That the only reason there's any blood at all is because you'd just been stabbed. But you're still forced to watch as this _thing_ takes every single bit of you and _twists_ it into something you hate. Something that is so distinctly not you.

It takes everything that made you, _you._ And makes you into _them_ instead.

(The infliction of his voice changes. Like he's suddenly waking up from a deep sleep. His voice slowly growing stronger with each word.)

It's a fear I'd always had to deal with. Becoming someone else because no one wanted the real me. Forcing me into being whatever was needed to keep some resemblance of peace between me and everyone else.

Maybe that's why, as it took me apart, I felt such an indescribable anger.

It had no right to do this to me. To take away everything I had _fought_ so hard for. It _needed_ to pay for trying to steal those small parts of myself that I had nurtured and cherished.

I don't know if anyone could actually hear my screams, or if maybe it had all been in my head. It wasn't even a scream of fear or pain. It was all my anger thrown into a single action to say that. **I. AM. STILL. HERE**.

It could never have expected me to have any strength to fight back. _**I**_ didn't expect me to have the strength to fight back. Guess that's one thing I can thank the slaughter for. Gave me enough energy to take that rusty knife lodged in my stomach and strike out with it.

And I kept striking, kept stabbing. Even when my blood had run from my body and my hands had already begun to grow cold. I remember knowing that the striking red shade of blood that began to cover me was not mine. Not sure if it even was _it's_ blood.

I guess it didn't matter in the end. At some point I'd fallen to the ground beside it. My eyes glued onto the lifeless form of what was supposed to be some hilariously wrong version of me.

I thought my last dying thoughts would be of some kind of inner peace. I'd won. I had made one last stand and it hadn't been for nothing. It couldn't hurt anyone like it hurt me.

I was wrong of course. I remember hearing it's bones crack as it started to move again. Helplessly watching as it picked itself up and became something different.

Shedding away everything it had stolen from me. Like it had never really mattered to it. Like all it had wanted to do was to make me unwhole for its own pleasure.

I don't know what happened to it because I died shortly after from the blood loss. The end had already begun to reach out to claim me, only to have it's hand slapped away like a petulant child.

(Something shifts in his voice again. This time feeling like there's more than just him speaking.)

We had already laid claim. He had already tasted the Stranger's fear even if he had not known it yet. It was such a new experience for us. An avatar that felt fear because of someone who was still human. Or as human as one can be in that situation anyway.

It was long gone before we woke in that cold alley. Our head a mess of thoughts and memories and pain. We couldn't be me yet. We were _never_ supposed to be me.

But _he_ was different than us.

A fear can be afraid of feeling that same fear they forced upon others turned back on to them. That's what _we_ had always done. Savoring in it from the shadows.

But _I_ could kill fear with its greatest fear. The fear of their victim having the power in a situation that was supposed to be theirs to control.

So be thankful Archivist. We are not your victims. And you better hope we never are. Because we'll be there to claim them.

And when we do, _I_ will be back to _claim_ you.

**Statement ends.**


End file.
